Dragon's Tongue
by chronically radioactive
Summary: Nirn is changing and for the worse. The Dragonborn must live up to the expectations of old, but what happens when the fate of all rests on flawed shoulders? Later DB/Brynjolf. Rated in lieu of future chapters.


_AN: Finally! I'm really looking forward to updating this story. It's got a bit of a different take on what happens when the Dragonborn absorbs souls. They have to go somewhere, right? They're not just going to go away. :P Enjoy (now that it's finally up)!_

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Kadira pushes both of her pale hands against the thick wooden door, stumbling at the surprising weight. She darts as quickly as she can through the small archway, letting the heavy door close softly behind her. She's panting wildly, and her heart threatens to jump from her throat, and she allows her composure to falter long enough so she can collapse against the old, splintered wood.

Once she catches her breath, Kadria lifts her cold gaze from the blood on her ratty sleeves to the huge cavern around her.

The walls are built from stacked cobblestone, and they arch upwards to form a dome at the top point of the ceiling. In the center of the huge, echoing room, a circular pool of water reflects light from the world above. She glances across the cavernous room, staring at the people sitting on stools that balance on what appears to be a floating bar.

_Watch your pockets, Dovahkiin._

Kadria's head pounds, and she retreats into herself for a moment. She suddenly imagines standing in an open, wind-swept field, and finds herself staring up into the golden eyes of Mirmulnir. The dragon shakes the imagined brushes of grass below them as she opens her wings.

_There are thieves about. More cowardly then the rest of the Jul. Pathetic._

The fair-haired Imperial drags her soul away from Mirmulnir's, blocking any more of the dragon's thoughts from entering her conscious. Mirmulnir is as nosey as an old maid, and Kadria often catches the ancient dragon trying to tap into the recesses of her mind when she isn't paying attention.

And, considering the woman's short attention span, the dragon succeeds quite often.

"I wonder if you are ever silenced, beast?" she demands, shaking her head to clear the mist enveloping the recesses of her mind. The she-dragon likes to make her presence known, and at the most inconvenient of times.

Considering how dangerous of a situation it is that Kadria is about to launch herself into, it would certainly be in the dragon's interest to hijack the woman's focus.

Unfortunately, Mirmulnir is not the only being within earshot of the Imperial's insane-sounding command, and a huge burly man stops her as she tries to circle the walkway around the pool. She meets his glare unabashedly. She is not one to be willfully intimidated.

"The name's Dirge, this place's name is the Ragged Flagon, and your name will be 'wolf chow' if you try anything I don't like. Got it, slime for brains?" he thunders, and Kadria gets the sense he's told to repeat the same threat to everyone who enters the Flagon.

"Why do they call you Dirge?" she asks, but when he starts to answer with uncharacteristic excitement, she holds up a smooth, Imperial hand. "Ah, never mind. You took so long to respond I lost interest," she deadpans, and brushes past before he can process her insult.

As she struts confidently away, however, Kadria's leather-clad foot lands in something. It makes a disgusting _squelch _sound as her foot picks back up, and she stumbles. A part of her, the part that was raised as a noble child living in Anvil, wants to scream and kick off running at the loss of her dignity. Fortunately, she holds back, and allows the new, rough side of her to take the reins.

She's been traveling the wilds of Skyrim for a solid month now, and has been through Oblivion and back along the way. Riften is the only city she's explored, other than Whiterun, and she's surprised that Mirmulnir is actually allowing her into the legendary city of sin.

Despite being one of the most fearsome fabled creatures to ever walk – or fly above –Tamriel, the beast has a surprisingly steady moral compass. She seems to understand that thousands of gold pieces are wanted for the heads of some of these thieves, and her fond sense of justice calls for her to rip their hearts out of their chests for disobeying law.

While she would much rather have Kadria slaughter all the mangy looking ruffians sitting at various stools in the make-shift bar, the dragon doesn't have much of a choice. Kadria is, unfortunately for Mirmulnir, in charge of her own body.

The bartender, thin for a Nord, waltzes over to the table that Kadria slouches in front of. She appraises the rest of the patrons, forcibly shifting through Mirmulnir's loud opinions, trying to gather her own.

_Ah, dovahkiin. That woman in the corner, does she not look like a harlot to you? I wonder how many kiir she has mothered. Probably all with different bormahs._

Kadria looks at the woman at whom Mirmulnir is directing her cruel gossip towards, and shrugs her shoulders.

_You seem jealous._

The Imperial is still practicing the conversational techniques within herself that the dragon tries to teach her, and has to snap her jaw shut so she won't speak aloud.

"You must be Brynjolf's new charge, eh?" the bartender asks, setting a tankard of mead in front of her. The blonde woman eagerly palms the metal, glad to have something warm and fiery to flush through her veins.

"Ratway's worse than Oblivion sometimes. You've at least deserved a pint, I think," he says, and claps her on the back. Kadria almost spews her drink onto the table at the forcefulness of the gesture, but chokes down the liquid and nods. She's almost forgotten how strong Nords are.

"The name's Vekel. Bryn'll be with you in just a moment," the bartender explains, and Kadria raises her tankard in an attempt to get the man to leave. She doesn't dislike him, per say, but rather feels like drowning herself in drink.

A few minutes later, just when she's becoming twitchy from having so many pairs of eyes watching her, a door creaks. Brynjolf sits down across from her, obviously tipsy. His impressive Nordic stature almost tips the poor wooden chair as it attempts to accommodate his drunken weight.

A bald man across the Flagon trots over when the red-head plops down opposite Kadria, and she glances up. No one, aside Brynjolf and Vekel, has approached, the former of which looking drunker than the naked revelers that prance around the country roads.

"I'm telling you, this one is different!" Brynjolf exclaims, and Kadria's chair protests as she jumps at the volume of his voice. He's looking at her, directing his words at her, and she stares in surprise for a moment.

"What?"

The bald man above Brynjolf throws his palm onto the other man's head, ruffling the messy ginger locks under his hand almost affectionately.

"Yer gonna have to excuse Brynjolf here, girl," the man chuckles. Kadria raises an eyebrow. "He's drunk off his bloody useless arse."

_Really. As if the Nord's state wasn't obvious enough? _Mirmulnir hums. Kadria shushes her.

"I can tell." She responds, almost coldly, and crosses her arms. She hears a haughty sniff from the white-haired woman across the bar, but doesn't give her anymore attention.

"Our eyes and ears in Skyrim tell us yer skills would be useful here in the Guild," Baldy continues, and she looks at him, not bothering to mask her suspicion.

"Fuck it, Delvin, she's not gonna last two days. The last four of Bryn's trainees didn't even make it through the first 24 hours. What makes her any better?" the pale woman snaps.

At that moment, Mirmulnir's soul intertwines with Kadria's, and they simultaneously voice their opinions at the same time.

_Cold-hearted bitch._

"Stand up, and let me get a lookatcher," Brynjolf suddenly stammers, and against her better judgment, she pushes herself up from the table and obeys.

Kadria has the average height of an Imperial – tall enough to look down upon a Khajiit or Bosmer, but still lithe and graceful, instead of tall and gangly. Her hair is a sandy blond, but she could never pass for a fair-haired Nord. Her facial structure and wispy posture give her heritage away as an Imperial, Especially with her sharp features and large, heavy-lidded eyes mark her as a noble.

Brynjolf nods lightly, and then slams himself back into his seat, causing quite a stir. "Pegged you for a noble, I did, lass," he waves his hand tipsily, and she glares at him with an icy gaze. She's here for money and fame, not to be bossed around by a useless drunk.

Delvin chuckles at his friend's demeanor, and becomes the second man to clap Kadria on the back. "Come on, my friend," he spins her about, and she follows him down the passage Brynjolf came. She watches as Delvin opens a hallowed-out storage cabinet, and then unlocks a heavy looking reinforced door. When he throws it open, she's almost speechless.

Even if she comes from nobility and is, frankly, a bit hard to please, Kadria enjoys beauty wherever she can find it. Right now, of all places in Tamriel, she discovers it in the Thieves Guild's inner sanctum, a place Delvin refers to as the Cistern. Water pours from grates high in the ceiling, channeling downwards into narrow streams over cobblestone furrows in the ground. The sound of rushing water is oddly comforting.

Delvin points out a few main landmarks in the huge sanctuary, including a training room, makeshift kitchen, and even an alchemy station. Kadria suddenly feels that her decision to take Brynjolf up on his offer was worth it.

She follows the bald thief around in a circle, as he points out whose bed is whose, and explains that their Guild Leader, Mercer, is currently out on a high-risk job.

"So until Bryn sobers hi'self up, and Mercer gets back, you can just rest here. Since you're new, yer gonna get that bed," Delvin points, and Kadria's pride flairs. While most of the beds are partially surrounded by wooden screens to give their owners some privacy, the Imperial woman's living space offers no such luxury.

"Trying to catch a peek, are you?" she huffs, and Delvin chuckles, winking teasingly.

"Nah, I have no need to sneak around to see _you_ naked, m'lovely friend."

Kadria laughs, despite herself and Delvin's lack of manners.

"I see. Just have to keep our affair a secret for now, won't we?" she deadpans, and the thief nods with another raucous roar of laughter.

"I'll leave you alone to get, y'know, accustomed to your new lavish lifestyle, friend," Delvin chuckles, and waves a huge hand at her in passing.

_Lavish lifestyle indeed. You are the spawn of dragons, dovahkiin. You should be given a grand palace and armies to command.  
_  
Kadria snorts at the dragon's innocent expectations, and throws herself down on the bed. She kicks her boots off, opens up the tight bodice of her leather armor, and relaxes.

_I wouldn't be so sure, Mirmulnir. A warm bed, drink, and gold is all I need right now. _Kadria waves a hand about her, humming thoughtfully as Mirmulnir's conscious seeps against the backs of her eyes, looking out of her head as if through a window.

_Yes, I suppose, _the dragon mutters, unconvinced. _Sleep, dovahkiin. I have a feeling you will need your rest._


End file.
